What Happened in Vegas
by riskybusiness101
Summary: Panic! at the Disco AU. What happened in Vegas should have stayed in Vegas, but it's followed Brendon around like a rain cloud since he was 19. He can't forget the relationship he shared with shady Internet millionaire Jon Walker and he certainly can't forgive ex-best friend Ryan for ruining any chance he had at success and love. Brendon Urie, Jon Walker, Ryan Ross, Fall Out Boy.
1. Chapter 1

Time heals all wounds. If I learnt anything from my 25 years on Earth it's that Time Heals. I guess that's why I'm here, sat back in Summerlin, Las Vegas, waiting for an old friend with about as much excitement as a prisoner on death row awaits the electric chair.

Sometimes friendships just fizzle out, like the bubbles in a soda can going flat and some friendships, which once held as much excitement and vigor as the flames of a campfire – even they just die out eventually. No biggie, that's just life.

Sometimes friendships come caterwauling to an explosive ending, smashing out windows and brawling in the middle of a casino at two in the morning – that was Ryan and I. The end of our relationship was like a huge Big Bang, broken noses and shattered egos and flailing tempers.

The waitress comes back around to the table and refills my coffee cup and I nod a thanks and concentrate hard on the pictures in the newspaper. It's summer in Las Vegas and the temperature is soaring well into the nineties. I pick up the menu and fan myself with it, looking outside of the window and into the parking lot.

I see him and his stupid fucking face approaching the diner and it surprises me just how much anger rises up inside my chest. Time heals, I keep telling myself. It's been years… you've both changed.

I consider looking back at the paper, pretending I haven't seen him, but he raises his hand and gestures a simpering little wave and an unsure smile. I nod and mimic his gesture and then raise my coffee mug to my lips to bide my time and think of something to say.

"Hi," he says, standing at the edge of the table and sliding into the seat opposite me. Still wide-eyed, still as fresh-faced as he always was when we were 18. "Long time, no see," he says, and he grabs blindly for the menu and opens it out in front of him.

"Yeah…" That's all I can think to say to him - my ex-best friend, the boy who I grew up with, the one person who knows most about me in the world and we are total strangers now. "What's up?"

Ryan shrugs his slender shoulders and wrinkles his nose. "You know, not much. How're things with you? How long you back in Vegas for?"

I think about this awkward conversation momentarily as I force another slug of weak diner coffee down my throat and then break eye contact. He's already the better man, I tell myself. He's the one who contacted you, remember, and he knows he's one-upped you already.

"I go back on Sunday," I tell him. I think about talking about California, about how my life has panned out since our massive bust-up, but I decide against it. We sit in silence for a few moments and then the waitress returns, refills my mug again and stands expectantly at the side of the table and asks us if we've made up our mind.

I order the corned beef hash and Ryan asks for bacon and eggs, over easy, with white bread. He used to order the exact same every single Saturday when we were teenagers and despite myself, the memory pulls my lips into a smirk.

"How's your family?" Ryan asks, flicking his hair back out of his eyes and looking inquisitively out at me from under his long bangs.

I shrug, because I've not seen them since I've been back in Vegas. "Okay, I think," I reply. "We don't have much to do with each other these days."

Another moment of silence descends like thick tar across the table and then I hear Ryan inhale and then sigh and then our eyes lock and I'm the one to look away first.

"I'm sorry. About what happened – about everything. I feel bad about it like you wouldn't believe," he tells me.

"So, how _is_ Jon?" I ask, irritated with that fucking prick sat in front of me, all angelic and perfect hair and innocent eyes. He looks uncomfortable for the first time since sitting down in front of me. "You lied to him about me. D'you ever tell him the truth or does he still think what happened was my fault?"

Ryan shifted in his seat and fixed his gaze out of the window. That was answer enough for me.

"You always had to do it, didn't you? Just one-up me all the time, you were always getting involved in shit you shouldn't've been, taking what wasn't yours… It's like you hated any kind of happiness that I had."

"Are you still bitter about me stealing your boyfriend from you when we were, like, 19, Brendon? Jon and I have been together ever since – over 5 years, you should probably get over it."

"You lied about me to everyone. I lost every single friend I had because you wanted to fuck around with someone I really liked – and now you're 25 and you're still acting like a spoilt little kid." I shook my head and eyed up our breakfasts getting cold on the servers pass. "Did he come back with you?"

I was bitter, Ryan was right. Five years later and those wounds still seemed fresh – and it's not like I'm bitter every single day, I mean, it doesn't effect my life, but when it's brought back like this, I can't lie and tell him I'm over it.

Ryan nodded and scratched at the table with his bitten fingernails.

"He wanted to come today, actually, but I didn't think it was a good idea."

"Why, incase you had to go to the bathroom and I told him what a thieving, lying little shit you actually are?"

"Bren… I _said_ I'm sorry." Ryan was getting pissed and irritated. "I mean, you're living in San Francisco now, you've got a good job, so I hear… You can't be doing too badly for yourself. I'm just working as a barman in one of Jon's bars and he works so much anyway and his family don't really like me – I mean, they tolerate me, because we've been together so long, but you can tell they just think I'm with him for the payout."

The waitress brought our food over and we both tucked in. Ryan's eggs and bacon were cooked to perfection, he said. My eggs were overdone and the hash was cold in the middle. This was an accurate representation of our relationship to date.

During the breakfast, Ryan talked about himself and Jon and their quaint little life in downtown Chicago and I zoned out. Ryan Ross wasn't sorry for what he'd done or for the trouble he'd caused me. This meeting, this breakfast together was a chance for him to gloat about his long-term relationship, their house, his car, their hipster friends. It was everything I could do not to reach over the table and punch him square in the face.

When we left, the goodbye was awkward. I'd have just turned away and lit up my cigarette and brushed my hands of the whole situation, but Ryan wanted to utter more useless apologies and dance around the fact that we hated each other these days.

"_Maybe_…" he suggested, slowly, apprehensively. "Maybe we could meet up – you know, the two of us, go for drinks? Does that sound like a good idea? Would that make it up to you?"

It sounded like a fucking terrible idea and no, it wouldn't make it up to me, but perhaps it'd serve as a good grounds for revenge. I agreed to meet him in the lobby of his hotel at 7PM that evening.

* * *

Ryan Ross had always been the kind of friend you sort of hate. He was the guy who'd done more shit, visited more museums, heard more music, seen more bands than everyone else he knew. He was the one with cool, divorced parents – happy to buy him booze and cigarettes. He had the best clothes, the most expensive cell phone, the hippest friends. I hated him, because he was everything I wanted to be.

I had grown up the fifth and youngest child of a strict Mormon family and had always struggled to come to terms with my sexuality, whereas Ryan with his haircut and his designer pants never had much problem getting girlfriends to fawn over him or getting the cool guys in school to like him.

He was my oldest friend and we'd grown used to the fact that we were sort of stuck together now. He was fun to hang around and he was pretty damn funny sometimes, but still, as I grew older, I kind of started to hate him.

Ryan was infuriating. If I talked to anyone in school, he'd be there by my side, talking me down and as time went on, our mutual friends started asking me why I put up with his shit, because he was cruel and bitchy and possessed a very cutting tongue.

At 15 I told Ryan I thought I was gay. It had taken a huge amount of courage and had terrified me for weeks, the thought of telling him, but one Saturday afternoon, over a Jamba Juice, he'd coaxed it out of me as if extracting a murder confession and after all my umm-ing and ahh-ing, he'd just rocked back in his chair and laughed.

"Really?" he asked, cocking his eyebrow at me and sucking on his straw. "Jesus, Brendon, what _will_ you parents say?"

Ryan, for all his 15 years at the time, liked to think he'd lived life and knew stuff about love and sex and _feelings_ and had shrugged his shoulders at me that afternoon and suggested that perhaps it was a phase.

I, for all _my_ 15 years, was pretty certain that years of pent-up frustration and self-hate and doubt weren't _just a phase_ as he called it and had been desperately hoping that he'd offer me some kind of sympathy for my woes, but I'd agreed that maybe it was just a phase and maybe one day I _would_ meet a girl and settle down and buy a house and get married and have kids and a couple of dogs and then die, old and grey and straight.

From then on, my struggles with my homosexuality had become a source of great amusement for Ryan. He teased me in front of the popular guys at school, he pulled up pictures of half-nude male models on his phone and asked me if I wanted to fuck them and he'd pal together with the girls he cast off and tell them I was interested and that they should ask me out.

I'd dealt wearily with Ryan's taunts and jibes for the following couple of months until one day I snapped and our following argument caused a rift so big we didn't talk for the next school semester.

Ryan had called me up early one Sunday morning, asking if I wanted to hang out at the local park before it got too warm and I'd debated going to meet him, but had agreed eventually, pulling on my worn-out old jeans and a t-shirt and shuffled sleepily to the park.

Ryan had been done up like a fucking show-pony and I told him as much. He rolled on his heels and grinned that he had a date – someone he'd met online.

"Why did you invite me on your date. Jeez, Ryan, what the fuck?"

Ryan nudged into me and we fell in-step.

"They might be a frickin' weirdo, man. They might murder me."

"It might be a fifty year old, dude; a pedophile."

Ryan laughed and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. "You heard of this website?" he asked, sliding his finger across the screen and showing me a busy page filled with ads for **HOT, SINGLE GUYS READY TO FUCK. **

"No," I lied.

"I created a profile. Here – _sexxyryry69_ – this dude Garrett wanted to meet me."

I took me a while to process all the information he was presenting me with – the gay dating site, the fake profile with a god-awful selfie of Ryan in his underwear, the horrible screen-name – a _dude_, called Garrett, who wanted to meet _him_.

"Are you for real?" I asked, stunned, too shocked to really put too much anger into my question.

"Why, you jealous?" he teased, nudging my shoulder with his and then pulling his cell phone away from my unblinking eyes and back into his pocket.

"Ryan, you're not… you're not into guys!" I said, incredulously. "What are you doing meeting them online?"

It crossed my mind briefly that perhaps Ryan was being a good friend for once, perhaps he was trying to set me up, but I knew him better than that and dispelled that thought immediately from my head.

"Doesn't hurt to experiment though, right? I mean, if _you're_ doing it, or just _thinking _about doing it, after you stop being such a pussy little virgin – I should be able to do it too, huh?"

I'd always managed to keep my cool around Ryan, but right now, this sunny Sunday morning in the park, I could feel my blood boiling. He was fucking me over, once again. He had invited me out this morning to gloat, to show me just how much better at everything he was than me – even being gay. Never had he even so much as suggested that he was into guys. Not when I admitted to him over juice that Saturday a few months back, not once – I fumed as the intense feeling of hatred and jealousy flooded my veins.

"Oh my god, I don't believe you. Since when have you been _gay_, Ryan?" I asked him – there was so much I wanted to say to him, I could have pulled up years and years of bitchy, cruel things that Ryan had done to me, but this – this was one of the worst.

"I'm not gay, man, it's just a bit of fun, Jesus, what the hell climbed up your ass this morning?"

I stopped in my tracks and turned to face him. People talk about having short fuses all the time. For me, it was the opposite. I had an exceptionally long fuse, especially with Ryan, but when it finally reached its end, the explosion was on a nuclear scale.

"It's not just a bit of fun though, is it?" I spat at him. His eyes suddenly didn't look so sure anymore. That stupid smirk faltered momentarily on his face. "You don't even get it. It's not a joke, this is to fuck with me, isn't it, because you're _so _much better than me – and you've always thought that."

"Don't be stupid, fucking calm down, man." Ryan was looking self-conscious for the first time since I'd ever known him. I wondered how he felt, being called out on his shit.

I threw my hands up in frustration and shook my head. Imitation is the greatest form of flattery, so they say. I didn't know whether to just brush it off like I always did when Ryan pulled some shit like this, or actually hold him accountable for being such a spiteful little fuck.

"Why are you so pissed off, I mean, it's not like you're the only gay kid in the world, man. It's actually pretty fashionable these days."

"I'm not doing this as a fashion statement, you stupid fuck. I struggle every single day, because my parents would never understand and I'm not like you – I'm not fucking spoilt and self-assured and fucking blind to everything other than myself. I actually think about peoples' feelings and you never have and you probably never will, because you're too wrapped up with how your hair looks or screwing _me_ over and I'm meant to be your best friend. Carry on, man and you'll not have anyone left to listen to all your bullshit stories."

Ryan looked pissed and I was glad. I was happy to have finally cracked his unflappable, cool exterior. He rarely showed much emotion apart from indifference but it actually looked like my words had hit home.

"Well… well, why don't you just fuck off then, Brendon?" His voice almost cracked as he said my name and it wasn't so much a request as it was a challenge. So I took him up on it and pushed past him towards home.

"If I turn up dead tomorrow morning it's your fault!" he called after me. I raised my middle finger and Ryan had followed with a petulant "Fine, fuck you."

* * *

Later that evening, after showering and getting ready in my cheap little motel room a few miles off The Las Vegas Strip, I sat on the bed and wondered what I was doing agreeing to meet Ryan for drinks.

We'd led different lives for the past five years. We'd not even talked to each other and here I was, being pressured into doing something I didn't want to do, just because I was scared of telling him to get lost and leave me alone.

I had a tendency to drink too much in stressful situations and I could see tonight going down much the same road. I would be ill at ease in Ryan's presence and would drink quickly to try and give me the confidence to deal with it. He would most likely sip on the same damn drink all night, just so he could strike one more point to him on his little mental tally.

I thought about him and Jon, being together and apparently in love and I hated to admit, but I was jealous. Jon had been mine; way before he was Ryan's and it was just another example of Ryan always wanting what wasn't his.

If I was going to put myself through the hell of _Drinks With Ryan_ and have to listen to his boring drivel about the price of gas in Chicago and how he misses my friendship, the least he could do is bring Jon along. I battled internally with myself for the next fifteen minutes, stared at my reflection in the mirror long enough to start hating it and then decided to _fuck it_, call a cab and try – hard – to enjoy myself and just let bygones be bygones.

* * *

Of course, Ryan and Jon were staying at The Wynn – one of the nicest hotels on The Strip.

Jon had made his fortune online when he was 15 after founding the biggest Internet search engine since Google. He'd been a teenage genius, featured year after year on international rich-lists; one of the youngest self-made billionaires in the world – and at one point he'd been interested in _me; _Brendon Urie, a high-school drop out who didn't leave Nevada until he was twenty-one.

He and I had met seven years ago. I was 18, and he was 21, but the age difference had seemed vast – he was well educated and well travelled, but had managed to live a modest life. He kept his face out of the news and despite being ridiculously rich, no one knew who he was. People made the assumption that he was just a product of millionaire parents, but Jon was smart. At least I thought he had been, until he hooked up with Ryan.

I didn't get it – not then, or now. Jon was charming and funny and intelligent and diligent. Ryan was… Ryan was Ryan and I couldn't get my head around what had made their relationship last so long.

I milled around the lobby of the hotel, all ornate red carpets and gold lighting. I remembered when Jon and I had fucked in the penthouse suite of this hotel and wondered if he and Ryan were staying in the same room and he was recalling the same thing as I waited for his boyfriend to show up.

I wanted to see him and I didn't. I'd dealt with exes in the past and they're surprising people to bump into. It's good when you run into them and you can talk without feeling any love or jealousy or anger, but I've also experienced the awkward side-eye at a bar, where you can run into a person you had once been so close to and now you can't even nod a hello in a club. I wondered how it would be with Jon and I. I'd spent the first few months after our break up crafting wondrous meetings from across hotel lobbies just like this – all romantic violin music, in slow motion.

Ryan's email a few weeks ago had brought on similar fantasies. I'd almost choked on my beer when I saw his name in my inbox. My heart had picked up, I'd felt immediately shrouded in doubt as I read over his message, looking for a hidden meaning.

_Hey Brendon, _

_Long time no see. Sorry if this seems out of the blue, but I'm gonna be in Las Vegas from July 29 to Aug 10. Spencer tells me you're headed back there for his 25th and it'd be great to meet up. Lot's has gone on since we last saw each other and it's probably time to try and fix that. Let me know if you're cool to meet up sometime. It'd be great to catch up. _

_Hope you're well._

_Ryan. _

I had debated replying to him for two days until my guilt got the better of me and I type a quick reply, hoping to come across as unphased and way too busy, but probably coming across as evasive and bitter.

_Sure, I'll see what I can do. Here's my cell number. Gimme a call.  
Brendon._

Currently, in the lobby of the hotel, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket to check for any missed messages or phone calls. _Nothing. _I hated being the first to arrive somewhere. Ryan was notoriously late and I tried to ignore the nagging feeling that he'd stood me up. I could go into the casino, put ten bucks down on the roulette table and get a free drink out of it, or I could just wait here in the lobby, steeped in anxiety, reflecting on the life I could've had – penthouse suites at the Wynn, instead of one-stop-fuck-shop motels in Old Vegas.

My mind settled on the latter and I sat awkwardly on a chaise-longue, playing with my phone until Ryan showed his face fifteen minutes later, without so much as an apology for being late. Jon wasn't with him and I could already see this evening going down hill.

"What you up for doing tonight?" Ryan asked me. He looked just as stoked to be out with me as I was to be out with him. "Drinks, dinner?" he suggested as we walked together towards the exit. "Gambling?"

"I can't stay out too late. I have to meet my parents tomorrow morning," I lied, already planning my escape route for later.

"Me too," he sighed, sounding put out. "I'm driving myself to Summerlin to meet my mom at 9AM. Jon had some excuse not to come, so… that's why I'm late, we had kind of a dispute."

It was a throwaway comment for Ryan, but that was my tiny little window of opportunity. I was in. Jon would be alone in their hotel room from 9AM tomorrow morning. I processed that information to the back of my mind and offered to buy the first round of drinks when we arrived at the bar.

* * *

The night had been a suitable disaster. I'd woken up, still in my clothes from the night before at 6AM, with little recollection of how I'd made it home last night. In the brief few moments between rousing myself from sleep and actually waking up, I ran through what I remembered from last night.

There was drinks at the bar before Ryan and I had hit any of the casinos – lots of drinks, which I half-heartedly tried to pay for while Ryan flashed his – or most likely Jon's – credit card. We'd gambled in the Bellagio – mixing with the high-rollers as he and I lost money. I'd always been sensible with my cash, I gambled occasionally when I returned to Vegas, but I'd limit myself to a hundred bucks and usually try and walk away ahead. Ryan and I however were being sloppy with his money, enjoying the rush of the roulette table and the Black Jack. I was enjoying the drinks too, as the waitresses made sure we got suitably drunk and poured us stiff whiskeys and gin and tonics.

I blinked my eyes up at the moldy ceiling of my motel room and was pretty sure that nothing had gone down between Ryan and I. I felt immediately guilty for getting so drunk and wondered if Ryan had been in a similar state when we left each other last night.

He'd been pissed at Jon and after a few drinks in the first bar had spent a good fifteen minutes complaining about him - I never knew whether to love or hate the fact that Ryan was so oblivious to the things he said. It took him a while, but eventually he turned the conversation around to me and asked what I was doing for a living, how I was liking San Francisco and whether or not I missed Vegas and The Good Ol' Days; which is what he'd called them.

I, of course, glossed up my pretty mundane life as an assistant manager in a rich Jewish nursing home and gushed about my apartment and my paycheck and my social life – all things I knew were sure to impress someone as fickle as Ryan Ross.

It was true, I was earning a pretty decent penny in California, but rent was expensive and the price of living extortionate compared to Vegas. The majority of my wages went on the rent of my shared apartment a few blocks back from Haight Street – I loved it, because it was a cool area to hang out in, but I finished each month scraping pennies from under my couch hoping to be able to afford just one more drink at the bar on a Friday night.

He asked if I had a boyfriend and I admitted that no, I didn't and instead of nodding sagely and agreeing that single life was actually alright, Ryan shook his head in pity and gushed about how great being in a relationship was.

"You've just spent the last half hour complaining about yours, man, you're not gonna get me with that one," I told him. Ryan was a slow drinker and I eyed his glass doubtfully, wondering when it'd be socially acceptable to go buy us another round.

I was happy being single – I was playing the field and I had a number of very successful one-night-stands behind me. I wondered about Jon and whether he'd ever cheated on Ryan, because one day, drinking together, he'd told me he'd never been faithful to anyone in his life.

"So, why didn't Jon come out tonight?" I asked – the question had been burning on the tip of my tongue for the whole evening.

Ryan had shrugged. "I just guessed it'd be better if it was just the two of us, you know. We've not spoken in so long and you know – I guess I just wanted to make that up to you."

"Make it up to me? What, the fact that not even my family talk to me these days or the fact that everyone we used to hang out with; William and Travis and Patrick; all them – they hate me for something I didn't even do, dude. I almost went to prison because of you."

"Do you still talk to Pete?" Ryan asked and I wanted to wave my hand in front of his eyes and coo _hello? Did you even understand my question, or what? _I decided against it, because it was futile.

"Pete, Jesus Christ, he's like hitting me up on Facebook every week, always wanting to me go down to LA to hang out."

I hated Pete and was constantly trying to dissuade his advances. Pete had been a friend of Jon's from Chicago and we'd met under the same circumstances as I'd met the rest of Jon's motley crew. Pete had a sensational ability for making you hate him just for being too nice. He reminded me of church folks, only if they all had coke habits and a penchant for showing you their dicks.

"He's the only one that Jon and I don't keep in contact with," Ryan informed me, an air of nonchalance in his voice as he flicked his hair out of his eyes.

"Wow, thanks for leaving me with _something_ then, Ryan, I appreciate it. I bet Jon hates me too, huh?"

Ryan, his eyes fixed on the black napkin his drink sat on said, "Jon doesn't fucking hate you. He's been asking about you, but I mean, he doesn't even know you're in Vegas!" his voice raised an octave as he shook his head at me. He laughed, bitterly. "I didn't tell him I was meeting you this morning. He thinks I'm out with Spencer tonight…"

"Wow, seems like your relationship is going swimmingly," I couldn't help but point out. "Shame it's based off of a load of lies though, Ryan-"

He cut me off. "Oh, what, and yours was based off _love_ – when you two were together, huh? Or was that power and money and drugs?" He tried to stare me out from across the table, but I had a few drinks in me already and I wasn't backing down to Ryan's little tantrum.

"I don't know why you're pissed at me, I mean, he and I were together before you and-"

"And he chose _me_." Ryan didn't look at me as he finished his drink and slammed his glass down on the table. "I'm going for a piss. Get the next round in," he told me as he marched towards the bathrooms.


	2. Chapter 2

I recalled the night as I showered under the cold stream of pathetic water that spurted from the moldy showerhead of my motel bathroom.

Jesus Christ, I felt guilty this morning, I thought as I tried to scrub the memories of last night off my skin and out of my hair. The worst part of my hangovers was never the headaches or the unsettled stomach – it was always the guilt, always the worry that I'd said too much or drunk too much or acted like a fucking idiot and that everyone hated me.

Conveniently, I'd retained the information that Ryan was apparently meeting his mother out in Summerlin this morning at 9AM, despite the fact that some other parts of the evening were still pretty hazy. It took me the same amount of time it did for me to finish my shower, dry myself and dress to decide that I _would_ try to catch up with Jon this morning. It was an almost foolproof plan, I told myself as I straightened my hair – if Ryan was still there, I could always pretend that I was there to see him – apologise for any untoward behavior last night – and if he wasn't, then _bingo!_ Jon and I would be alone and I had one over on Ryan.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror – I looked good – for 9AM the morning after a rough night. I walked towards The Strip with a spring in my step.

Jon and I had met in unusual circumstances. I was 18 and he was a millionaire 21 year-old, who seemed to me to be so much older and wiser and _manlier_ than his actual age. He'd been so charming and funny and persuasive during our first meeting that I'd immediately fallen under his spell and had promptly signed up for a life that had changed my world forever.

I had been an awkward 18-year old. Always too anxious about my sexuality and what my religious family would think about it to truly enjoy my teenage years. I'd been pretty typical in other respects though, I enjoyed music and Ryan and I had once tried to start a band that had been doomed from the very start, as we couldn't decide who should be lead vocals. It surmounted to nothing and Ryan had left the band within a few weeks, so I took it upon myself to keep singing and keep playing and would busk on one of the overpasses on The Strip on Friday and Saturday nights.

This was something I'd managed to keep from Ryan. Las Vegas is a very boring city to grow up in and even as an adult, unless you've got money, it's a pretty depressing place to be. I managed to make a small amount of money – around twenty to forty dollars a night, but it was unsatisfying, singing covers for drunks on Las Vegas Boulevard.

The night I met Jon was the second Saturday in August – the city was in the middle of a heat wave and even the night brought little comfort from the insufferable temperature. I'd noticed him hanging around for a little while and was trying to ignore him. I wasn't sure if he was going to come up to me and chat or kick my tips jar over and laugh – I tried not to think about it too much and then we accidentally locked eyes and I messed up my song and cursed myself for being so uncool in a crisis.

After I'd finished, waving off jeers from a group of college boys a few years older than me, he pushed himself off the railing and started towards me. He was attractive; I remember thinking – in a really normal way. He sported a gruff beard and dark, messy hair. He wore a hoodie and skinny jeans and flip-flops and I prayed he wasn't going to approach me and request I sing Sweet Home Alabama or Wonderwall or Freebird or some shit. He stopped in front of me, sat down next to me and offered me his hand.

"You sing pretty well, man," were his fist words to me.

"Thanks, dude."

"Jon," he introduced himself, gripping my hand with a firm shake.

"Brendon."

"Where're you from? You mind if I smoke?"

I shook my head. "I'm from here."

"Vegas local, huh?" he raised his eyebrows as he lit his cigarette, the flame from the lighter illuminating his face.

"Yeah, born and bred. How about you, you here on vacation?"

Jon shook his head and laughed as he blew smoke out from between his lips. I had to look away to save myself from blushing.

"I just relocated here from Chicago."

"Oh shit, why?" I hated Vegas – the heat and the tourists and the fact that, despite everything, it was slap-bang in the middle of the fucking desert.

"_Why_? How old are you, not twenty-one, evidently. This place is cool, man – I like it."

"Give it a couple of months, dude. You'll see."

Jon had grinned, but didn't say anything. I strummed idly on my guitar, hoping he'd either ask another question or get up and leave. A few moments later, he started to pull himself to his feet.

"Anyway, here, take this." He offered me a business card from the pocket of his hoodie and I scanned it, quickly.

Jon Walker

Agency A+

"I'm a scout – for an agency. I think you've got potential. Gimme a call sometime… Brendon," he winked and then left me where I was as he disappeared into the next crowd of tourists.

The morning after Jon had introduced himself to me on the overpass, I'd toyed with the business card he'd handed me wondering what I should do with it. I wanted to Google this Agency A+, but it was early on a Saturday morning and I wasn't scheduled to use the Internet until late this afternoon – my father worked from home and two of my four older siblings were home from university for the summer – the house was full and so we kept to schedules and timeframes to avoid upset. My parents frustrated me – I'd left the Church at 16 and, despite it being almost two years, they still acted upset every Sunday morning when they left me at the breakfast table.

I wondered what this Agency did. This Jon had said he was a scout – perhaps a talent scout, perhaps he wanted to sign me on a recording contract and then I'd be able to stick a big middle finger up at Ryan – that would certainly give me the upper hand, I thought gleefully as I lay on my bed. Perhaps he was from a model agency, I thought fancifully – he'd said I'd had _potential_. Potential as what, I was interested in finding out.

Most of my life I'd always felt inferior – whether it be to my parents and their anti-gay ways or my intelligent university-bound siblings, or Ryan – definitely to Ryan – and now, here I was, minding my own business and busking on The Strip, when a good-looking guy approaches me and hands me a business card, saying I have _potential._

I battled with my conscience for half an hour longer, before eventually deciding to throw caution to the wind and just call this Jon guy and ask what was up with Agency A+.

* * *

As I approached The Wynn Hotel early that morning, I was feeling confident and only a tiny bit hung-over. It was 9.30AM and Ryan should've left at least forty-five minutes ago if he was meeting his mom at nine.

That was ridiculously early to meet on a Saturday morning, I thought as I nodded a thank you to the doormen of the hotel and strolled into the lobby.

I remembered Ryan's mom; she'd always been pretty cool, but meeting her gave away why Ryan was so damn apathetic. She was a ditzy woman – a good few years younger than my parents and she imposed absolutely no rules on her only son. Ryan could stay out as long as he wanted, get up when he wanted – he had no chores, he managed to lie to her about homework and assessments and exams and she happily worked two jobs to give him everything he wanted. It had been infuriating when I was younger, now – as a twenty-five year old man, I can see how off her child-raising skills were and Ryan himself had demonstrated this time and time again.

I walked to the front desk, trying to appear as if I belonged in this 5* hotel and stood patiently waiting for the receptionist to finish on the phone. I was suddenly struck with anxiety – what if they wouldn't give me Jon's room number, what if all this effort to one-up Ryan was for nothing.

"I'm here to see a friend of mine – not too sure of his room number, but he asked me to go right ahead and ask for him at reception."

"What was the name, sir?" she asked me, her pretty blue eyes looking at mine as her hands hovered over her computer keyboard.

"Walker. Jonathan Walker."

She typed his name into the computer and pursed her lips.

"No one here of that name, are you sure he's not staying at our sister hotel, The Encore?"

"No. He's here." Doubt was already settling in my mind however, and my heart started to beat hard behind my ribs. "Try the last name Ross. Ryan Ross."

Again she typed and hit a button and then shook her head.

"Sorry, sir."

I remember Jon, when we would creep off together and check into hotels, he would use the alias Robert Zimmerman. Bob Dylan was one of his favourite artists and Robert Zimmerman was Dylan's birth name. Jon had used this name numerous times so as not to be reached in hotels and I knew it was a long shot and I'd probably sound like I was clutching at straws, but I gave the receptionist the name anyway.

She raised her eyebrows at me in polite frustration, typed the name into her computer and looked somewhat surprised when the pseudonym obviously wielded results.

It shamed me to do it, but I dug a crumpled twenty dollar bill out of my back pocket and placed it on the counter. I'd lived in Vegas long enough to realize that you can get anything you want here – so long as you pay for it.

She looked at the twenty, covered it with her hand and pulled it down into the desk.

"Suite 4501," she said. "Towards the elevators and it's the one of the left. Did you need me to call to tell him you're on your way?"

"No, it's good. Thank you," I smiled, heading towards the elevators.

* * *

I couldn't quite believe my luck. Here I was, on my way to the top floor of The Wynn Las Vegas to finally talk to Jon Walker, after five long years. I didn't know what I'd say to him when I finally did see him, but I could wing it, I thought, bubbling with excitement. This was my chance to try and right every wrong that Ryan had caused me. I don't know what I was expecting – certainly not for Jon to welcome me with open arms, promise to dump Ryan and take me back to Chicago to live a wonderful life in his millionaire penthouse, but if it worked out even half as good as that, I'd be satisfied.

I stopped at the door in front of me – Suite 4501 – this was definitely the room that Jon and I had first fucked. I felt sick with nerves and adrenaline. I knocked at the door and waited – praying he wasn't out, or worse – that he wouldn't look through the peephole and decide not to open the door.

As I was fretting about these possible situations, I heard the door being opened. My heart was thumping – and then there he was, looking handsome as ever in jeans and a t-shirt, talking on his cell phone as our eyes locked.

Jon looked surprised. He made an excuse to the person he was talking to and said he'd call them back and then there was a beat of silence before he ran his hand through his dark hair and broke into a smile.

"Wow, what the fuck, man? What are you doing here?" he asked.

What _was _I doing here, I wondered.

"This is fucking trippy, I didn't expect to see you stood in my doorway when I woke up this morning. What's up, man?"

We hugged awkwardly and then stood back, waiting for each other to say something.

"I'm back in Vegas for a week or so. Ryan called me, asked if I wanted to meet up, you know? We were out last night, how's he feeling this morning?"

"What, you were out with Spencer too? Ryan never mentioned it."

"Oh. Well, yeah – Spencer wasn't there." I told him, acting dumb. "Is he about?" I asked, peering into the vast suite behind Jon.

"He left this morning, like, super early to meet with his mom – if you'd've arrived about an hour ago, you'd probably have caught him. So, what – you were out with Ryan last night – he got home super wasted."

"Yeah, I'm surprised he didn't mention it," I said innocently. "It was a pretty messy night, but I guess it was cool to catch up."

"Just the two of you?" Jon asked, unsurely.

"Yeah. We had a couple of drinks, spent a bit of time in the casinos. You should've come along, man. It was fun," I lied.

"Yeah, wow – I would've, if I'd been invited. Ryan told me he was going out with Spencer, he never mentioned anything about you – weird. Wow, dude – it's so strange to see you again. Come in. I had no idea you were back in Vegas."

I followed him into the room. It started to bring back memories – of he and I fucking in that bedroom – the bathroom in this suite was bigger than my entire apartment in California. I could feel the smile pull up at my lips and wondered if Jon was thinking the same as me.

"I remember this room," I said, just in case he wasn't.

"Yeah, I bet you do. We had some fun, huh?"

I sat down at the dining table and looked around. I wondered if he'd try and tackle the subject of our break-up – whether or not he'd have an excuse for not contacting me in five years. Perhaps he was leaving that in my capable hands, he was probably expecting an apology.

"I don't know why Ryan wouldn't say you were here, especially as you two went and got fucked up last night."

"_Really? _I know why he probably didn't mention me to you."

"Well, yeah. But…" he shook his head and looked at me. "I probably owe you an apology."

I shrugged. "You know I didn't do any of that shit, right? You know I didn't call the cops on you?"

"I figured that one out a little too late. I was so pissed at you and I knew I'd get in so much shit if I hung around Las Vegas – that was the last thing I needed, some drugs scandal. I had to leave. I'm sorry. D'you want a coffee?" he asked. I accepted, wishing that I had something stronger to mix into it.

"You never tried to contact me," Jon pointed out, after a moment.

"You told me not to."

There was silence as we both lost ourselves in thoughts of the past. I could see Jon biting the inside of his cheek, staring out through the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking The Strip.

"So, what's up, did you come to see Ryan, or did you come to see me?" he asked, his arms were folded across his chest as he leant back on the breakfast bar. He was bare-footed and unshaven and he looked great.

"Well, I guess I came to see you. I mean, if you want me to leave-"

He shook his head. "I don't want you to leave. Fuck, Brendon, what are you doing, you're going to cause problems, I can tell." He turned away from me and rinsed his coffee cup out in the sink. "Ryan's meant to be out with his mom all day – d'you wanna hang out? I don't know if you've eaten, we could grab breakfast. Get a couple of drinks before lunch?"

I smiled. "Sounds great." And it fucking did. Things couldn't have gone better.


End file.
